The crowd had thinned, leaving only a few scattered figures whispering in corners, casting him looks thick with pity. The sky darkened, but the stars hadn’t yet shown up.

  A familiar voice pulled him from thought.

  “There you are,” Remy said, arms folded. He stood, half-shadowed by the dying daylight. “Didn’t think you’d slip off mid-chaos.” he said. “But my offer still stands.”

  Vaan said nothing.

  “I know how you feel.” Remy said, “You want to grow stronger, faster? Come with me. We leave by moonrise. No guardsmen drill. Real fights. Real danger. That’s how you sharpen steel.”

  “Is Priscilla going with you?” Vaan asked.

  “Hard to say.” Remy raised a brow. “Nobles have options other than just the adventure guild. But she’s been watching. Asking questions. She might come. Is that a deal breaker?”

  Before Vaan could answer, a heavier step approached from behind.

  Petros.

  Petros stepped forward, shoulders squared, face unreadable. “We need to talk.”

  Remy didn’t move. Petros didn’t wait. He stopped in front of Vaan and held something out.

  A coin. Not one Vaan recognized. Heavier. Bronze, maybe.

  On one face, a crowned emperor’s profile, bearded and stern, cast in fading gold.

  On the other, a sword piercing downward through a coiled serpent, its fangs bared. Behind them, a circle of etched lines, like the spokes of a wheel… strangely reminiscent of the rune of the flair ‘Order’. Coincidence?

  “You could stay,” Petros said. “You stay; I train you myself. Personally. No soft drills. You’ll work harder than anyone, but you’ll build solid.”

  He pressed the coin into Vaan’s hand.

  “Or you take this,” he said. “Ride to Darven’s Roost. Find the Mercenary Guild. Ask for Ivek. Show him the coin”

  He leaned closer and whispered a word into Vaan’s ear. Foreign. Sharp. Like a lock clicking open.

  “The rest, he will take care.”

  Vaan turned the coin slowly in his palm.

  Petros's voice lowered. “Mercenaries grow fast. Hard lives force change. You’ll be tested from day one. You’ll either break… or return as a force no one can ignore.”

  Remy snorted. “Or he ends up dead. Or worse… bound to coin and contract. That’s not freedom.”

  Petros didn’t flinch. “It’s a path. One of many. No matter your choice, the Watch will keep its eyes on Redbones. Erik won’t touch them.”

  Then he turned and walked off, boots crunching gravel in measured steps.

  Remy gave Vaan a light pat on the shoulder. “Tick-tock, kid. I’m leaving after nightfall. You want in? Be at the west gate before then.”

  And he was off! Vaan watched him go.

  Garix had discussed the various guilds and factions with him. The adventure guild and mercenary guild being the primary of them. Both were similar and different in many ways. Adventure guilds did not exist just in the Ashwa kingdom. It existed across all the major cities and kingdoms, operating under a code. Mercenary guilds existed across the kingdom too but were mostly run by the ruling force and nobility. In times of war, they became national assets with the imperial forces using them openly or covertly. Those in mercenary guilds were military experts who were feared as much as they were respected.

  There had been more, but Vaan couldn’t remember. His mind kept slipping back to Garix’s funeral that was to be held soon.

  The village had begun its quiet descent into the evening. People moved in quiet groups, lanterns in their hands, voices hushed, preparing for the funeral.

  In Wragford, the dead were always laid to rest before nightfall. Some said it was to ward off restless spirits, though few could explain why. Others believed swift farewells kept grief from turning into something darker. Not all families in Wragford chose fire. Most buried their dead. But Garix Redbones had come from the southern lands, where fire meant closure. It was a tradition the village respected. And tonight, it would be honored.

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  Garix had been well-liked.

  Not just by the Watch, who sought him out for weapons, but by the everyday folk who saw past the eyepatch and the quiet toughness of a man shaped by old battles. Beneath it all was a steady weathered soul. Garix’s homeland was too far south, and he had never spoken of relatives. If the funeral were held tomorrow, Vaan was certain people from the northern and western settlements would come. Garix’s name and craftsmanship had traveled farther than Vaan ever had and north being prone with conflicts always sought out good blades from a decent swordsmith.

  But there was no waiting. With Remy preparing to leave and tension still hanging thick in the air, delay would’ve served no one.

  A coin had been placed over each eye for luck, a quiet village tradition, as his body was lowered. The flames from the pyre rose high, a final farewell in fire.

  Elijah stood slightly apart from the gathering. His posture was relaxed, hands loosely clasped behind his back. Too composed for a funeral, his clothes neat, his hair immaculately combed. Always too put-together.

  Risa stood close to the pyre; her hands clenched so tightly her knuckles blanched. She had tended to Brenda, and now her eyes kept flicking to Vaan, then away, as if afraid of what she’d find.

  Vaan couldn’t stop the thought from digging in: If he left, what would happen to Brenda and Marianne? Would Erik let them be? Could he protect them even if he stayed? He hadn't been strong enough to save Garix. The weight of that failure clung to him.

  Then Risa moved beside him. For a long moment, she said nothing, her eyes fixed on the pyre.

  “I came for the ceremony,” she whispered. “To say goodbye. I owed him that.” She looked at him briefly. “And for you.”

  Vaan nodded, jaw clenched, eyes still on the fire.

  “If you go,” she added, hesitating, “I might follow. Later. Once I’ve found my own strength. But not now. I’m not ready to run.”

  They stood in silence, her hand finding his, fingers lacing together. The gesture was soft, unsure, but it stayed with him.

  Then Elijah stepped forward, his presence breaking the hush like a stone dropped in water. He stopped just short of them, a bit too casually.

  “A soulbound sword,” he said, nodding at the blade at Vaan’s hip. “Quite the heirloom. Pity it cost a life instead of coin.”

  Vaan’s fingers twitched toward the hilt, instinct more than thought.

  Elijah didn’t flinch. “I heard the story. Erik wouldn’t have cared if Garix had forged it and handed it over.” His tone cooled further. “But it bound to you.”

  A pause.

  “I wonder how.”

  Vaan looked down, the question landing with uncomfortable weight.

  Elijah’s eyes drifted back to the pyre. “Now Garix is ash. Brenda’s broken… and you—” He gave a pointed glance at Vaan’s joined hands with Risa but said nothing more.

  “You didn’t even like him.”

  “Garix?” Elijah shrugged mildly. “No. But I didn’t want him dead. That wasn’t my doing.”

  A log collapsed in the pyre with a crackle of sparks. Risa turned sharply, eyes narrowing at the tension thick between them.

  “Elijah,” she said sharply.

  He studied her for a moment, then turned back to Vaan. “Remy leaves tonight.”

  “I know.”

  “If you go,” Elijah said, choosing his words with care, “I’ll see they don’t go without. For Brenda. And for Marianne.”

  “He doesn’t have to go now,” Risa said, the protest slipping out. “He has time.”

  “That’s up to him,” Elijah said softly, offering Risa a look that held something like pity, though whether it was for her or for Vaan, even he might not have known. Then he turned and walked away, quiet and without ceremony.

  Risa lingered only a moment more, her eyes on Vaan. When he didn’t respond, she gave him a quiet nod, then disappeared into the night.

  A few moments later, Tal and Ronald appeared, dressed awkwardly in their best tunics. The colors were a little too bright. Ronald looked especially odd, his usually tousled hair neatly combed, and a pair of ears, clearly fake, sat just a bit too proudly on his head, angled too straight to fool anyone.

  Vaan blinked at them, frowning slightly.

  Ronald caught the look and flushed. “The village beautician fixed them for me,” he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.

  Tal arched a brow, then laughed. “Wait! Hold on. We have a beautician? And you actually went?”

  “I didn’t know she was a beautician at first!” Ronald protested, though his cheeks were already pink. “I thought it was just a tailor who… did face stuff too.”

  Vaan let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh, the first one all day. He didn’t miss how Ronald winced when he adjusted the fake ears, probably held on too tight with whatever paste or thread had been used. The pain was real, but the silliness was intentional.

  They were trying to lift him, even if only for a moment. And for that, Vaan was quietly grateful.

  “Heard you’ve got choices,” Ronald asked.

  “Darven’s Roost?” Tal shook his head, a half-smile on his face. “We can’t afford it yet. Not unless we all sell our boots.”

  “But someday,” Ronald added, eyes glinting, “we’ll get there. Wherever there is.”

  In that moment, despite his grief, Vaan felt a flicker of gratitude for them. Their bond was something he would always cherish. The pyre roared behind them, the flames casting long shadows as the sun dipped below the hills.

  And Vaan? He stood still, holding the coin token Petros had given earlier.

  Remy’s path. Petros’s offer.

  His family’s safety. Risa’s promise.

  Elijah’s cold practicality.

  And Garix’s silence.

  He looked at the pyre. He had already decided.

  Vaan should